Chapter VI: Part 6

GERALD [_laughingly obeying her_]. There. If anything happens it will happen to the screen. Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Superintendent of Police--

ROSAMUND. Name?

GERALD. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I was absolutely gone on her.

ROSAMUND. Symptoms?

GERALD. Well--er--whenever her name was mentioned I blushed terrifically. Of course, that was only one symptom.... Then I met a girl on the home steamer--no father or mother. An orphan, you know, awfully interesting.

ROSAMUND. Name?

GERALD. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [_Rosamund nods._] I don't mind telling you, I was considerably struck by her--still am, in fact.

ROSAMUND. Symptoms?

GERALD. Oh!... Let me see, I never think of her without turning absolutely pale. I suppose it's what they call "pale with passion." Notice it?

ROSAMUND [_somewhat coldly_]. It seems to me the situation amounts to this. There are two girls. One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes you blush. The other is named Madge, and the thought of her makes you turn pale. You fancy yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your breast the more deeply.

GERALD. That's not exactly the way to put it, Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear Evelyn play the "Moonlight Sonata." It's the most marvelous thing.... And then Madge's eyes! The way that girl can look at a fellow.... I'm telling you all these things, you know, Rosie, because I've always looked up to you as an elder sister.

ROSAMUND [_after a pause, during which she gazes into his face_]. I suppose it was in my character of your elder sister, that you put a certain question to me four years ago last night?

GERALD [_staggered; pulls himself together for a great resolve; after a long pause_]. Rosie! I never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [_Speaking quicker and quicker._] But I see clearly now. I never _could_ withstand you. It's all rot about Evelyn and Madge. It's you I'm in love with; and I never guessed it! Rosie!... [_Rushes to her and impetuously flings his arms around her neck._]

JAMES [_who, during the foregoing scene, has been full of uneasy gestures; leaping with incredible swiftness from the shelter of the screen_]. Sir!

ROSAMUND [_pushing Gerald quickly away_]. Gerald!

JAMES. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise significance of this attitudinising? [_Gerald has scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, but now does so quickly_]. Are we in the middle of a scene from "Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9:30 A. M. in the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played the "Moonlight Sonata" to you, or looked at you as Madge does, there might perhaps have been some shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and infamous conduct. But since she has performed neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp--I say I fail to grasp--er--

GERALD [_slowly recovering from an amazement which has rendered him mute_]. Rosie, a man concealed in your apartment! But perhaps it is the piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best.

ROSAMUND. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald.

JAMES. I have gathered as much. [_The men bow stiffly._]

ROSAMUND [_dreamily_]. Poor, poor Gerald! [_Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily to the table and picks up the revolver._]

GERALD. Sir, that tool is mine.

JAMES. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those three words, "Poor, poor Gerald!" convinces me, a keen observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless--even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive myself of life. Good-by! [_To Gerald._] Sir, I may see you later. [_Raises the revolver to his temples._]

ROSAMUND [_appealing to Gerald to interfere_]. Gerald.

GERALD. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it--but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [_Folds his arms._]

JAMES. Rosamund, _do_ you love me?

ROSAMUND. My Jim!

JAMES [_deeply moved_]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [_Smiling blandly._] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [_Aims at Gerald._]

ROSAMUND [_half shrieking_]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.

JAMES. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so.

ROSAMUND [_entreating_]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... Think of the complications.

GERALD. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request.

JAMES. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [_Lowers revolver._]

GERALD. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize.

JAMES. I accept the apology. [_The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern._]

ROSAMUND. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [_He puts it down on the table._] Thank you!

JAMES [_picking up letter_]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's.

ROSAMUND [_taking the letter_]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [_Stares at envelope._] I know what it is. I _know_ what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't _be_ married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be _dead_. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so?

JAMES. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter?

ROSAMUND. I am opening it as fast as I can. [_Reads it hurriedly._] There! I said so! Lottie fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle--won't be able to stir for a fortnight--in great pain--hopes it won't _inconvenience_ us!

JAMES. Inconvenience! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she fall off?

ROSAMUND. Sloane Street.

JAMES. That makes it positively criminal. She always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before.

ROSAMUND. Perhaps she did it on purpose.

JAMES. Not a doubt of it!

ROSAMUND. She doesn't want us to get married!

JAMES. I have sometimes suspected that she had a certain tenderness for me. [_Endeavoring to look meek._]

ROSAMUND. The cat!

JAMES. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jealous.

ROSAMUND. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang?

JAMES. Hang her skirts!

ROSAMUND. You wish to defend her?

JAMES. On the contrary; it was I who first accused her. [_Gerald, to avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and taking some paper from his pocket begins thoughtfully to write._]

ROSAMUND. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit upset.

JAMES. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing.

ROSAMUND. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more than is necessary to sustain life.

JAMES. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're getting worked up.

ROSAMUND. No, I shan't. [_Sits down and cries._]

JAMES. What did I tell you? Now perhaps you will inform me what we are quarreling about, because I haven't the least idea.

ROSAMUND [_through her sobs_]. I do think it's horrid of Lottie. We can't be married with one witness. And I didn't want to be married at a registry office at all.

JAMES. My pet, we can easily get another witness. As for the registry office, it was yourself who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm High and you're Low--

ROSAMUND. I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else Evangelical.

JAMES [_beginning calmly again_]. I'm High and you're Broad, and there was a serious question about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided on the registry office, which, after all, is much cheaper.

ROSAMUND [_drying her tears, and putting on a saintly expression_]. Well, anyhow, James, we will consider our engagement at an end.

JAMES. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed.

ROSAMUND [_with increased saintliness_]. You mistake me, James. I am not quarreling. I am not angry.

JAMES. Then you have ceased to love me?

ROSAMUND. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come here--drawn by some mysterious, sinister impulse--in breach of all etiquette. That was a Sign.

JAMES. A sign of what?

ROSAMUND. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten episode.

JAMES. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up.

ROSAMUND. Hush! Then comes this letter about Lottie.

JAMES. Damn that, too!

ROSAMUND [_sighs_]. Then Gerald arrives.

JAMES. Damn him, too! By the way, where is he?

GERALD [_coming out from behind the screen_]. Sir, if you want to influence my future state by means of a blasphemous expletive, let me beg you to do it when ladies are not present. There are certain prayers which should only be uttered in the smoking-room. [_The two men stab each other with their eyes._]

JAMES. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, that you had no business to call on my future wife within three hours of her wedding, and throw her into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she doesn't know whether she is going to get married or not.

GERALD. Sir! How in the name of Heaven was I to guess--

ROSAMUND [_rising, with an imperative gesture_]. Stop! Sit down, both. James [_who hesitates_], this is the last request I shall ever make of you. [_He sits_]. Let me speak. Long ago, from a mistaken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy [_pointing to Gerald_] to understand that I loved him; that any rate I should love him in time. Supported by that assurance, he existed for four years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilization, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell selfishly in love. I promised to marry ... while he, with nothing to assuage the rigors--

JAMES. Pardon me, there was Evelyn's "Moonlight Sonata," not to mention Madge's eyes.

ROSAMUND. You jest, James, but the jest is untimely. Has he not himself said that these doubtless excellent young women were in fact nothing to him, that it was _my_ image which he kept steadfastly in his heart?

GERALD. Ye--es, of course, Rosie.

ROSAMUND [_chiefly to James_]. The sight of this poor youth fills me with sorrow and compunction and shame. For it reminds me that four years ago I lied to him.

GERALD. It was awfully good of you, you know.

ROSAMUND. That is beside the point. At an earlier period of this unhappy morning, James, you asseverated that you could not dream of getting married with a lie on your lips. Neither can I. James, I love you to madness. [_Takes his inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again._] Good-by, James! Henceforth we shall be strangers. My duty is towards Gerald.

GERALD. But if you love _him_?

ROSAMUND. With a good woman, conscience comes first, love second. In time I shall learn to love _you_. I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, take me. It is the only way by which I can purge my lips of the lie uttered four years ago. [_Puts her hands on Gerald's shoulders._]

JAMES. In about three-quarters of an hour you will regret this, Rosamund Fife.

ROSAMUND. One never regrets a good action.

GERALD. Oh! well! I say.... [_inarticulate with embarrassment_].

ROSAMUND [_after a pause_]. James, we are waiting.

JAMES. What for?

ROSAMUND. For you to go.

JAMES. Don't mind me. You forget that I am in the War Office, and accustomed to surprising situations.

GERALD. Look here, Rosie. It's awfully good of you, and you're doing me a frightfully kind turn; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't do. Kindness spoils my character.

JAMES. Yes, and think of the shock to the noble youth.

GERALD. I couldn't permit such a sacrifice.

ROSAMUND. To a good woman life should be one long sacrifice.

GERALD. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you, Rosie, I'm awfully obliged to you. Of course I'm desperately in love with you. That goes without saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The fact is ... there's Madge....

ROSAMUND. Well?

GERALD. Well, you know what a place a steamer is, especially in calm, warm weather. I'm afraid I've rather led her to expect.... The fact is, while you and Mr. Brett were having your little discussion just now, I employed the time in scribbling out a bit of a letter to her, and I rather fancy that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in the proposal line. How's this for a novelty: "My dear Miss Madge, you cannot fail to have noticed from my behavior in your presence that I admire you tremendously?" Rather a neat beginning, eh?

ROSAMUND. But you said you loved me.

GERALD. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state that I "admire" her. All the same I feel I'm sort of bound to her, ... you see how I'm fixed. I should much prefer, of course....

JAMES. To a good man life should be one long sacrifice.

GERALD. Exactly, sir.

ROSAMUND [_steadying herself and approaching James_]. Jim, my sacrifice is over. It was a terrible ordeal, and nothing but a strict sense of duty could have supported me through such a trying crisis. I am yours. Lead me to the altar. I trust Gerald may be happy with this person named Madge.

JAMES. The flame of your love has not faltered?

ROSAMUND. Ah, no!

JAMES. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't been fairly robust, the recent draughts might have knocked it about a bit. You have no more sacrifices in immediate view?... [_She looks at him in a certain marvelous way, and he suddenly swoops down and kisses her._] To the altar! March! Dash; we shall want another witness.

GERALD. Couldn't I serve?

ROSAMUND. You're sure it wouldn't be too much for your feelings?

GERALD. I should enjoy it.... I mean I shan't mind very much. Let us therefore start. If we're too soon you can watch the process at work on others, and learn how to comport yourselves. By the way, honeymoon?

JAMES. Paris. Charing Cross 1:30. Dine at Dover.

GERALD. Then you shall eat that lunch I have ordered at the Savoy.

ROSAMUND. Er--talking of lunch, as I'm hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd like a drink.

JAMES AND GERALD [_looking hopefully at each other_]. Well, yes.

ROSAMUND. I have some beautiful lemonade.

JAMES AND GERALD [_still looking at each other, but with a different expression_]. Oh, that will be delightful! [_Lemonade and glasses produced._]

GERALD. I drink to the happy pair.

ROSAMUND [_a little sinister_]. And I--to Madge.

JAMES. And I--to a good woman--Mrs. Pet [_looking at her fixedly_]. All men like a good woman, but she shouldn't be too good--it's a strain on the system. [_General consumption of lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down, Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder._]

ROSAMUND. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only ordered lunch for two at the Savoy.

GERALD. Well, that's right. By that time you and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and me makes two.

[_Curtain._]

THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE

A PLAY

BY GEORGE CALDERON

Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd.
All rights reserved.

THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE is founded on a story by the same author,
published anonymously some years ago in _Temple Bar_.

The agents for amateur rights in this play are Messrs. Samuel
French, 28 West 38th Street, New York, and Joseph Williams, Ltd.,
32 Great Portland Street, London, from whom a license to play it
in public must be obtained.

It was first performed for the Stage Society at the Aldwych
Theatre, London, January 29, 1911, with the following cast:

PRASKOVYA, _a lodging-house keeper_ _Mrs. Saba Raleigh_
VARVARA, _her servant_ _Miss Eily Malyon_
ASTERYI, _a lodger_ _Mr. Franklin Dyall_
FOMA, _a lodger_ _Mr. Stephen T. Ewart_
SPIRIDON, _a stonemason_ _Mr. Leon M. Lion_
A STRANGER _Mr. O. P. Heggie_
A CORPORAL _Mr. E. Cresfan_

Produced by MR. KENELM FOSS.

SCENE: _Small provincial town in Russia._

Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Messrs.
Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., publishers of the English edition.

THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE

A PLAY BY GEORGE CALDERON

[_Praskovya's sitting-room. Street door in porch and a curtainless
window at the back. It is night; the light of an oil-lamp in the
street dimly shows snow-covered houses and falling snow. The room
is plainly furnished: a bed, a curtain on a cord, some books,
eikons on a shelf in the corner with a wick in a red glass bowl
burning before them, paper flowers, and Easter eggs on strings. A
photograph of a man of twenty hangs by the eikons. There are doors
to kitchen and to the lodgers' rooms._

_Varvara is discovered sitting by a lamp darning stockings._

_There is an atmosphere of silence, solitude, and Russian
monotony. The clock ticks. A man is seen passing in the street;
his feet make no sound on the snowy ground. There is the sound of
a concertina and a man who laughs in the distance out of doors.
Then silence again._

_Enter Asteryi, stout and lazy; gray hair thrown untidily back, a
rough beard. He is in slippers and dirty dressing-gown, with a big
case full of Russian cigarettes in his pocket._]

AST. Is Praskovya Petrovna not at home?

VAR. [_rising_]. She is not at home, Asteryi Ivanovitch. She has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh. It is the festival of the translation of St. Pantaleimon's relics. [_Varvara sits again. Asteryi walks to and fro smoking a cigarette._] Will you not have your game of patience as usual?

AST. Without Praskovya Petrovna?

VAR. She would be sorry if you missed your game because she was late. You can play again when she returns; she likes to watch you.

AST. Very well.

[_Varvara gets a pack of cards. Asteryi sits at a table at one
side and plays._]

VAR. Shall I prepare the samovar?

AST. Not yet; I will wait. How greasy these cards are [_laying out a patience_].

VAR. No wonder, Asteryi Ivanovitch. It is two years since you bought this pack.

A VOICE [_without_]. Varvara! Varvara! There is no water in my jug.

AST. There is one of the lodgers calling you.

VAR. It is the schoolmaster.

AST. Better not keep him waiting; he is an angry man.

VAR. I will go. Excuse me, please.

[_Exit Varvara. The clock ticks again. Asteryi pauses and
meditates, then murmurs, "Oh, Hospodi!" as if in surprise at being
so terribly bored. The concertina plays a few notes. A knock at
the street door._]

AST. Who's there? Come in, come in!

[_Enter Spiridon, a man with a cringing, crafty manner, in a
sheepskin coat with snow on it. He stands by the door, facing the
eikon, crossing himself with large gestures and bowing very low
towards it._]

SPIR. [_looking round_]. Good-day, sir, good-day. [_Crossing himself again._] May the holy saints preserve all in this house.

AST. Ah! it's you, Spiridon?

SPIR. Yes, sir. It is Spiridon the stonemason.

AST. What brings you here, Spiridon?

SPIR. Is Praskovya Petrovna not at home?

AST. No, she has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh.

SPIR. The service is late to-night.

AST. Yes.... You are a hard man, Spiridon.

SPIR. Me, sir!

AST. And you lose money by your hardness. Praskovya Petrovna is a poor woman. For years she has been saving up money to build a stone house over the grave of her son in the Troitski Cemetery. You say that you will build it for 500 roubles, but you ask too much. By starving herself and pinching in every way she has saved up 400 roubles at last, and if you were a wise man you would accept it. For see, she is old; if she starve herself to save up another 100 roubles she will be dead before she has got it; her money will be sent back to her village or it will go into the pocket of some official, and you will not have the tomb-house to build at all.

SPIR. I have thought of all these things, Asteryi Ivanovitch, since you last spoke to me about it. And I said to myself: Asteryi Ivanovitch is perhaps right; it is not only Praskovya Petrovna who is old; I myself am old also, and may die before she has saved up money enough. But it is very hard to work and be underpaid. Good Valdai stone is expensive and hard to cut, and workmen nowadays ask for unholy wages. Still, I said to myself, a tomb-house for her son--it is a God-fearing work: and I have resolved to make the sacrifice. I have come to tell her I will consent to build it for 400 roubles.

AST. You have done rightly. You are an honest man, and God and St. Nicholas will perhaps save your soul.

[_Enter Foma in cap and great-coat from the door to the lodgers'
rooms._]

FOMA. Good-evening, Asteryi Ivanovitch. Is Praskovya not at home?

AST. No, she is at Vespers.

FOMA. I come in and find my stove smoking. [_Taking of his coat._] I wished to ask her permission to sit here awhile to escape a headache. Who is this? Ah, Spiridon. And by what miracle does Asteryi Ivanovitch hope that God and St. Nicholas will save your soul?

AST. He has consented to build Praskovya Petrovna the tomb-house over Sasha's grave for 400 roubles instead of 500.

FOMA. That is good! She will be glad to hear the news, and shake hands on the bargain, and christen the earnest-money with vodka.

SPIR. The earnest-money? Ah no, sir, there can be no earnest-money. The whole sum of money must be paid at once. I am a poor man. I must pay the quarryman for the stone; my workmen cannot live on air.

AST. If she has the money she will pay you.

FOMA. Well, if there is to be no earnest-money, at least we will have the vodka. Vodka is always good.

AST. [_to Spiridon_]. Sit down and wait till she returns. She will not be long.

SPIR. No, no; I will come again in an hour. I have to go to my brother-in-law two streets away. [_Crossing himself before the eikons._] I will come again as I return.

[_The tap of drums in the street._]

AST. Why are they beating drums?

FOMA. It is a patrol passing.

SPIR. The soldiers are very watchful to-day.

FOMA. It is because the Empress comes this way to-morrow on her journey to Smolensk.

SPIR. They have arrested many suspicious people. All those who have no passports are being sent away to Siberia.

FOMA. Ah! poor creatures! [_A patrol of soldiers passes the window quietly_].

SPIR. Why should you say "poor creatures"? If they were honest men they would not be without passports. Good-evening.

FOMA. Wait till they have gone.

SPIR. We honest men have nothing to fear from them. Good-evening. I will return again in an hour. [_Exit Spiridon._]

FOMA. How glad Praskovya will be.

AST. Say nothing of this to any one. We will keep it as a surprise.

[_Enter Varvara._]

FOMA. Varvara, my pretty child, fetch the bottle of vodka from my room.

VAR. Vodka in here? Praskovya Petrovna will be angry.

FOMA. No, she will not be angry; she will be glad. [_Exit Varvara._] Do you play patience here every night?

AST. Every night for more than twenty years.

FOMA. What is it called?

AST. It is called the Wolf!

FOMA. Does it ever come out?

AST. It has come out twice. The first time I found a purse in the street which somebody had lost. The second time the man above me at the office died, and I got his place.

FOMA. It brings good luck then?

AST. To me at least.

FOMA. How glad Praskovya Petrovna will be!

[_Enter Varvara with vodka bottle, which she sets on a table; no
one drinks from it yet._]

VAR. Do you not want to drink tea?

FOMA. Very much, you rogue.

VAR. Then I will set the samovar for both of you in here. [_She gets out tumblers, lemon and sugar._]

AST. I did wrong in moving the seven.

FOMA. Put it back then.

AST. It is too late. Once it has been moved, it must not be put back.

[_Enter Praskovya from the street hurriedly with a lantern._]

PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Hospodi Bozhe moy!

VAR. [_running to her, frightened_]. Have you seen him again?

PRAS. [_agitated_]. I do not know. There seemed to be men standing everywhere in the shadows.... Good-evening, Foma Ilyitch, good-evening, Asteryi Ivanovitch.

[_Varvara goes out, and brings in the samovar._]

FOMA. I have been making myself at home; my stove smoked.

PRAS. Sit down, sit down! What ceremony! Why should you not be here? And vodka too? What is the vodka for?

AST. I will tell you when I have finished my patience. [_They all drink tea._]

PRAS. So you are playing already.

AST. If it comes out, the good luck that it brings shall be for you!

PRAS. For me? [_They all watch Asteryi playing._] The knave goes on the queen. [_A pause._]

FOMA. That is unfortunate.

VAR. You should not have moved the ten. [_A pause._]

AST. That will be better. [_A pause._]

PRAS. How brightly the eikon lamp burns before the portrait of my boy.

VAR. It does indeed.

PRAS. It is the new fire from the Candlemas taper.

FOMA. It is the new oil that makes it burn brightly.

PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Nonsense! it is the new fire.

FOMA. Did ever one hear such stuff? She put out the lamp at Candlemas, and lighted it anew from the taper which she brought home from the midnight service, from the new fire struck by the priest with flint and steel; and now she thinks that is the reason why it burns so brightly.

VAR. Is that not so then, Asteryi Ivanovitch?

AST. Oh, Foma Ilyitch is a chemist; he can tell you what fire is made of.

FOMA. So you have been all the way to St. Pantaleimon's in the Marsh? Oh, piety, thy name is Praskovya Petrovna! Not a person can hold the most miserably little service in the remotest corner of the town but you smell it out and go to it.

VAR. It is a Christian deed, Foma Ilyitch.

AST. Now I can get at the ace.

VAR. [_to Praskovya_]. I must get your supper. [_She gets a plate of meat from a cupboard._]

FOMA. And on All Souls' Day she brought home holy water in a bottle and sprinkled the rooms of all the lodgers. The schoolmaster was very angry. You spotted the cover of his Greek Lexicon. He says it is a pagan custom, come down to us from the ancient Scythians.

PRAS. I do not like to hear jokes about sacred things. One may provoke Heaven to anger.

AST. Now I get all this row off.

FOMA. You are always afraid of offending Heaven.

PRAS. Of course I am. Think what I have at stake. For you it is only a little thing. You have a life of your own on earth; I have none. I have been as good as dead for twenty years, and the only thing that I desire is to get safely to heaven to join my son who is there.

FOMA. We all wish to get to heaven.

PRAS. Not so much as I do. If I were in hell it is not the brimstone that would matter; it would be to know that I should not see my son. [_Foma nods_].

AST. I believe it is coming out.

[_They all concentrate their attention eagerly on the patience._]

VAR. The six and the seven go. Saints preserve us! and the eight. [_She takes up a card to move it._]

AST. No, not that one; leave that.

VAR. Where did it come from?

AST. From here.

PRAS. No, from there.

VAR. It was from here.

AST. It is all the same.

FOMA. It will go.

PRAS. And the knave from off this row.

VAR. The Wolf is going out!

PRAS. It is seven years since it went out.

FOMA. Seven years?

AST. It is out!

PRAS. It is done!

VAR. [_clapping her hands_]. Hooray!

AST. [_elated_]. Some great good fortune is going to happen.

VAR. What can it be? [_A pause._]

PRAS. And what is the vodka for?

AST. The vodka?

PRAS. You promised to tell me when the patience was done.

AST. How much money have you saved up for the house on Sasha's tomb?

PRAS. Four hundred and six roubles and a few kopecks.

AST. And Spiridon asks for 500 roubles?

PRAS. Five hundred roubles.

AST. What if he should lower his price?

PRAS. He will not lower his price.

AST. What if he should say that he would take 450 roubles?

PRAS. Why, if I went without food for a year.... [_Laughing at herself._] If one could but live without food!

AST. What if he should say that he would take 420 roubles?

PRAS. Asteryi Ivanovitch, you know the proverb--the elbow is near, but you cannot bite it. I am old and feeble. I want it now, now, now. Shall I outlive the bitter winter? A shelter to sit in and talk to my son. A monument worthy of such a saint.

AST. Spiridon has been here.

PRAS. Spiridon has been here? What did he say? Tell me!

AST. He will build it for 400 roubles.

VAR. For 400 roubles!

AST. He will return soon to strike a bargain.

PRAS. Is it true?

AST. As true as that I wear the cross.

PRAS. Oh, all the holy saints be praised! Slava Tebye Hospodi! [_Kneeling before the eikons._] Oh, my darling Sasha, we will meet in a fine house, you and I, face to face. [_She prostrates herself three times before the eikons._]

VAR. Then this is the good luck.

AST. No, this cannot be what the cards told us; for this had happened already before the Wolf came out.

VAR. Then there is something else to follow?

AST. Evidently.

VAR. What can it be?

AST. To-morrow perhaps we shall know.

PRAS. [_rising_]. And in a month I shall have my tomb-house finished, for which I have been waiting twenty years! A little stone house safe against the rain. [_Smiling and eager._] There will be a tile stove which I can light: in the middle a stone table and two chairs--one for me and one for my boy when he comes and sits with me, and....

VAR. [_at the window, shrieking_]. Ah! Heaven defend us!

PRAS. What is it?

VAR. The face! the face!

PRAS. The face again?

FOMA. What face?

VAR. The face looked in at the window!

AST. Whose face?

VAR. It is the man that we have seen watching us in the cemetery.

PRAS. [_crossing herself_]. Oh, Heaven preserve me from this man!

FOMA. [_opening the street door_]. There is nobody there.

AST. This is a false alarm.

FOMA. People who tire their eyes by staring at window-panes at night often see faces looking in through them.

PRAS. Oh, Hospodi!

AST. Spiridon will be returning soon. Have you the money ready?

PRAS. The money? Yes, yes! I will get it ready. It is not here. Come, Varvara. [_They put on coats and shawls._]

AST. If it is in the bank we must wait till the daytime.

PRAS. My money in the bank? I am not so foolish. [_She lights the lantern._] Get the spade, Varvara. [_Varvara goes out and fetches a spade._] It is buried in the field, in a place that no one knows but myself.

AST. Are you not afraid to go out?

PRAS. Afraid? No, I am not afraid.

FOMA. But your supper--you have not eaten your supper.

PRAS. How can I think of supper at such a moment?

FOMA. No supper? Oh, what a wonderful thing is a mother's love!

PRAS. [_to Asteryi and Foma_]. Stay here till we return.

VAR. [_drawing back_]. I am afraid, Praskovya Petrovna.

PRAS. Nonsense, there is nothing to fear.

FOMA. [_throwing his coat over his back_]. I will go with you to the corner of the street.

AST. [_shuffling the cards_]. I must try one for myself.

FOMA. [_mockingly_]. What's the use? It will never come out.

AST. [_cheerfully_]. Oh, it never does to be discouraged.

[_Exeunt Praskovya, Varvara, and Foma. Asteryi plays patience.
Everything is silent and monotonous again. The clock ticks._]

FOMA. [_reenters, dancing and singing roguishly to the tune of the Russian folksong, "Vo sadu li v vogorode"_]:

In the shade there walked a maid
As fair as any flower,
Picking posies all of roses
For to deck her bower.

AST. Don't make such a noise.

FOMA. I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice with Praskovya Petrovna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her.

AST. So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account.

FOMA. Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka. [_Melodramatically._] A glass of wine with Caesar Borgia! [_Singing._]

As she went adown the bent
She met a merry fellow,
He was drest in all his best
In red and blue and yellow.

So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I are not saints, are we, Asteryi Ivanovitch?

AST. I do not care to parade my halo in public.

FOMA. Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only frightens people. Do you think he would have remained a saint all this time if he had lived?

AST. Who can say?

FOMA. Nonsense! He would have become like the rest of us. Then why make all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own life to a fantastic image?

AST. Why not, if it please her to do so?

FOMA. Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Praskovya is mad.

AST. We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Praskovya. Praskovya has preserved in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated and vanished.

FOMA. What ideas were these?

AST. Liberty! Political regeneration!

FOMA. Ah, yes; you were a sad revolutionary once, I have been told.

AST. I worshiped Liberty, as Praskovya worships her Sasha. But I have lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no one will ever see of documents that no one ever wants to read.... Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have become indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the Revolutionaries; it is all the same to me.

FOMA. You are afraid. One gets timid as one gets older.

AST. Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so much worse than life? No, it is because my idea is dead and cannot be made to live again, while Praskovya, whose routine as a lodging-house keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where ideas are as rare as white ravens.

FOMA. She has no friends to love?

AST. She has never had any friends; she needed none.

FOMA. She has relatives, I suppose?

AST. None.

FOMA. What mystery explains this solitude?

AST. If there is a mystery it is easily guessed. It is an everyday story; the story of a peasant woman betrayed and deserted by a nobleman. She came with her child to this town; and instead of sinking, set herself bravely to work, to win a living for the two of them. She was young and strong then; her work prospered with her.

FOMA. And her son was worthy of her love?

AST. He was a fine boy--handsome and intelligent. By dint of the fiercest economy she got him a nobleman's education; sent him to the Gymnase, and thence, when he was eighteen, to the University of Moscow. Praskovya herself cannot read or write, but her boy ... the books on that shelf are the prizes which he won. She thought him a pattern of all the virtues.

FOMA. Aha! now we're coming to it! So he was a sinner after all?

AST. We are none of us perfect. His friends were ill-chosen. The hard-earned money that Praskovya thought was spent on University expenses went on many other things--on drink, on women, and on gambling. But he did one good thing--he hid it all safely from his mother. I helped him in that. Together we kept her idea safe through a difficult period. And before he was twenty it was all over--he was dead.

FOMA. Yes, he was murdered by some foreigner, I know.

AST. By Adamek, a Pole.

FOMA. And what was the motive of the crime?

AST. It was for money. By inquiries which I made after the trial I ascertained that this Adamek was a bad character and an adventurer, who used to entice students to his rooms to drink and gamble with him. Sasha had become an intimate friend of his; and it was even said that they were partners in cheating the rest. Anyhow, there is no doubt that at one time or another they had won considerable sums at cards, and disputed as to the ownership of them. The last thing that was heard of them, they bought a sledge with two horses and set out saying they were going to Tula. On the road Adamek murdered the unfortunate boy. The facts were all clear and indisputable. There was no need to search into the motives. The murderer fell straight into the hands of the police. The District Inspector, coming silently along the road in his sledge, suddenly saw before him the boy lying dead by the roadside, and the murderer standing over him with the knife in his hand. He arrested him at once; there was no possibility of denying it.

FOMA. And it was quite clear that his victim was Sasha?

AST. Quite clear. Adamek gave intimate details about him, such as only a friend of his could have known, which put his identity beyond a doubt. When the trial was over the body was sent in a coffin to Praskovya Petrovna, who buried it here in the Troitski Cemetery.

FOMA. And the Pole?

AST. He was sent to penal servitude for life to the silver mines of Siberia.

FOMA. So Praskovya is even madder than I thought. Her religion is founded on a myth. Her life is an absurd deception.

AST. No; she has created something out of nothing; that is all.

FOMA. In your place I should have told her the truth.

AST. No.

FOMA. Anything is better than a lie.

AST. There is no lie in it. Praskovya's idea and Sasha's life are two independent things. A statement of fact may be true or false; but an idea need only be clear and definite. That is all that matters. [_There is a tapping at the door; the latch is lifted, and the Stranger peeps in._] Come in, come in!

[_Enter the Stranger, ragged and degraded. He looks about the
room, dazed by the light, and fixes his attention on Asteryi._]

Who are you? What do you want?

STRANGER. I came to speak to you.

AST. To speak to me?

FOMA. Take off your cap. Do you not see the eikons?

AST. What do you want with me?

STRANGER. Only a word, Asteryi Ivanovitch.

AST. How have you learnt my name?

FOMA. Do you know the man?

AST. No.

STRANGER. You do not know me?

AST. No.

STRANGER. Have you forgotten me, Asteryi Ivanovitch?

AST. [_almost speechless_]. Sasha!

FOMA. What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost.

AST. A ghost? There are no such things as ghosts. Would that it were a ghost. It is Sasha.

FOMA. Sasha?

AST. It is Praskovya's son alive.

FOMA. Praskovya's son?

SASHA. You remember me now, Asteryi Ivanovitch.

AST. How have you risen from the dead? How have you come back from the grave--you who were dead and buried these twenty years and more?

SASHA. I have not risen from the dead. I have not come back from the grave; but I have come a long, long journey.

AST. From where?

SASHA. From Siberia.

FOMA. From Siberia?

SASHA. From Siberia.

AST. What were you doing in Siberia?

SASHA. Do you not understand, Asteryi Ivanovitch? I am a criminal.

AST. Ah!

SASHA. A convict, a felon. I have escaped and come home.

AST. Of what crime have you been guilty?

SASHA. Do not ask me so many questions, but give me something to eat.

AST. But tell me this....

SASHA. There is food here. I smelt it as I came in. [_He eats the meat with his fingers ravenously, like a wild beast._]

FOMA. It is your mother's supper.

SASHA. I do not care whose supper it is. I am ravenous. I have had nothing to eat all day.

FOMA. Can this wild beast be Praskovya's son?

SASHA. We are all wild beasts if we are kept from food. Ha! and vodka, too! [_helping himself_].

AST. Are you a convict, a felon, Sasha? You who were dead? Then we have been deceived for many years.

SASHA. Have you?

AST. Some other man was murdered twenty years ago. The murderer said that it was you.

SASHA. Ah, he said that it was me, did he?

AST. Why did Adamek say that it was you?

SASHA. Can you not guess? Adamek murdered no one.

AST. He murdered no one? But he was condemned.

SASHA. He was never condemned.

AST. Never condemned? Then what became of him?

SASHA. He died.... Do you not understand? It was I who killed Adamek.

AST. You!

SASHA. We had quarreled. We were alone in a solitary place. I killed him and stood looking down at him with the knife in my hand dripping scarlet in the snow, frightened at the sudden silence and what I had done. And while I thought I was alone, I turned and saw the police-officer with his revolver leveled at my head. Then amid the confusion and black horror that seized on me, a bright thought shot across my mind. Adamek had no relatives, no friends; he was an outcast. Stained with his flowing blood, I exchanged names with him; that's the old heroic custom of blood-brotherhood, you know. I named myself Adamek; I named my victim Sasha. Ingenious, wasn't it? I had romantic ideas in those days. Adamek has been cursed for a murderer, and my memory has been honored. Alexander Petrovitch has been a hero; my mother has wept for me. I have seen her in the graveyard lamenting on my tomb; I have read my name on the cross. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. Evidently she loves me still.

AST. And you?

SASHA. Do I love her? No. There is no question of that. She is part of a life that was ended too long ago. I have only myself to think of now. What should I gain by loving her? Understand, I am an outlaw, an escaped convict; a word can send me back to the mines. I must hide myself, the patrols are everywhere.... Even here I am not safe. [_Locks the street door._]

AST. Why have you returned? Why have you spoilt what you began so well? Having resolved twenty years ago to vanish like a dead man....

SASHA. Ah! if they had killed me then I would have died willingly. But after twenty years remorse goes, pity goes, everything goes; entombed in the mines, but still alive.... I was worn out. I could bear it no longer. Others were escaping, I escaped with them.

AST. This will break her heart. She has made an angel of you. The lamp is always burning....

SASHA [_going to the eikon corner with a glass of vodka in his hand_]. Aha! Alexander Nevski, my patron saint. I drink to you, my friend: but I cannot congratulate you on your work. As a guardian angel you have been something of a failure. And what is this? [_taking a photograph_]. Myself! Who would have known this for my portrait? Look at the angel child, with the soft cheeks and the pretty curly hair. How innocent and good I looked! [_bringing it down_]. And even then I was deceiving my mother. She never understood that a young man must live, he must live. We are animals first; we have instincts that need something warmer, something livelier, than the tame dull round of home. [_He throws down the photograph; Foma replaces it._] And even now I have no intention of dying. Yet how am I to live? I cannot work; the mines have sucked out all my strength. Has my mother any money?

AST. [_to Foma_]. What can we do with him?

SASHA. Has my mother any money?

AST. Money? Of course not. Would she let lodgings if she had? Listen. I am a poor man myself, but I will give you ten roubles and your railway fare to go to St. Petersburg.

SASHA. St. Petersburg? And what shall I do there when I have spent the ten roubles?

AST. [_shrugging his shoulders_]. How do I know? Live there, die there, only stay away from here.

FOMA. What right have you to send him away? Why do you suppose that she will not be glad to see him? Let her see her saint bedraggled, and love him still--that is what true love means. You have regaled her with lies all these years; but now it is no longer possible. [_A knocking at the door._] She is at the door.

AST. [_to Sasha_]. Come with me. [_To Foma._] He must go out by the other way.

FOMA [_stopping them_]. No, I forbid it. It is the hand of God that has led him here. Go and unlock the door. [_Asteryi shrugs his shoulders, and goes to unlock the door._] [_To Sasha, hiding him._] Stand here a moment till I have prepared your mother.

[_Enter Praskovya and Varvara, carrying a box._]

PRAS. Why is the door locked? Were you afraid without old Praskovya to protect you? Here is the money. Now let me count it. Have you two been quarreling? There are fifty roubles in this bag, all in little pieces of silver; it took me two years.

FOMA. How you must have denied yourself, Praskovya, and all to build a hut in a churchyard!

PRAS. On what better thing could money be spent?

FOMA. You are so much in love with your tomb-house, I believe that you would be sorry if it turned out that your son was not dead, but alive.

PRAS. Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah! if I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms!

FOMA. But he would not be the same now.

PRAS. If he were different, he would not be my son.

FOMA. What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in degradation?

PRAS. Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something has happened! Tell me what it is.

AST. Your son is not dead.

PRAS. Not dead? Why do you say it so sadly? No, it is not true. I do not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him.

AST. He is here.

[_Sasha comes forward._]

PRAS. No, no! Tell me that that is not him ... my son whom I have loved all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [_To Sasha._] Don't be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son.

SASHA. You know that I am your son.

PRAS. My son is dead; he was murdered. I buried his body in the Troitski Cemetery.

SASHA. But you see that I was not murdered. Touch me; feel me. I am alive. I and Adamek fought; it was not Adamek that slew me, it was....

PRAS. No, no! I want to hear no more. You have come to torment me. Only say what you want of me, anything, and I will do it, if you will leave me in peace.

SASHA. I want food and clothing; I want shelter; I must have money.

PRAS. You will go if I give you money? Yes? Say that you will go, far, far away, and never come back to tell lies.... But I have no money to give; I am a poor woman.

SASHA. Come, what's all this?

PRAS. No, no! I need it; I can't spare it. What I have I have starved myself to get. Two roubles, five roubles, even ten roubles I will give you, if you will go far, far away....

FOMA. Before he can travel we must bribe some peasant to lend him his passport.

PRAS. Has he no passport then?

FOMA. No.

[_A knock. Enter Spiridon._]

SPIR. Peace be on this house. May the saints watch over all of you! Asteryi Ivanovitch will have told you of my proposal.

PRAS. Yes, I have heard of it, Spiridon.

FOMA. Good-by, Spiridon; there is no work for you here. That is all over.

PRAS. Why do you say that that is all over?

FOMA. There will be no tomb-house to build.

PRAS. No tomb-house? How dare you say so? He is laughing at us, Spiridon. The tomb-house that we have planned together, with the table in the middle, and the two chairs.... Do not listen to him, Spiridon. At last I have money enough; let us count it together.

SASHA. Give me my share, mother!

PRAS. I have no money for you.

SASHA [_advancing_]. I must have money.

PRAS. You shall not touch it.

SASHA. I will not go unless you give me money.

PRAS. It is not mine. I have promised it all to Spiridon. Help me, Asteryi Ivanovitch; he will drive me mad! Oh, what must I do? What must I do? Is there no way, Varvara? [_Tap of drums without._] [_To Sasha._] Go! go! go quickly, or worse will befall you.

SASHA. I will not go and starve while you have all this money.

PRAS. Ah! Since you will have it so.... It is you, not I! [_Running out at the door and calling._] Patrol! Patrol!

FOMA. Stop her.

VAR. Oh, Hospodi!

PRAS. Help! Help! Come here!

FOMA. What have you done? What have you done?

[_Enter Corporal and Soldiers._]